Now suddenly Mirèio whispered, “Hark! What can that be?” and listened like a lark Upon a vine, her small forefinger pressing Against her lip, and eager eyes addressing To a bird’s nest upon a leafy bough, Just opposite the one where she was now. “Ah! wait a little while!” with bated breath, So the young basket-weaver answereth, And like a sparrow hopped from limb to limb Toward the nest. Down in the tree-trunk dim, Close peering through a crevice in the wood, Full-fledged and lively saw he the young brood. And, sitting firmly the rough bough astride, Clung with one hand, and let the other glide Into the hollow trunk. Above his head Mirèio leaned with her cheeks rosy red. “What sort?” she whispered from her covert shady. “Beauties!”--“But what?”--“Blue tomtits, my young lady!” Then laughed the maiden, and her laugh was gay: “See, Vincen! Have you never heard them say That when two find a nest in company, On mulberry, or any other tree, The Church within a year will join those two? And proverbs, father says, are always true.” “Yea,” quoth the lad; “but do not thou forget That this, our happy hope, may perish yet, If all the birdies be not caged forthwith.” “Jesu divine!” the maiden murmureth: “Put them by quickly! It concerns us much Our birdies should be safe from alien touch.” “Why, then, the very safest place,” said he, “Methinks, Mirèio, would thy bodice be!” “Oh, surely!” So the lad explores the hollow, His hand withdrawing full of tomtits callow. Four were they; and the maid in ecstacy Cries “Mon Dieu!” and lifts her hands on high. “How many! What a pretty brood it is! There! There, poor darlings, give me just one kiss!” And, lavishing a thousand fond caresses, Tenderly, carefully, the four she presses Inside her waist, obeying Vincen’s will; While he, “Hold out thy hands! there are more still!” “Oh sweet! The little eyes in each blue head Are sharp as needles,” as Mirèio said Softly, three more of the wee brood she pressed Into their smooth, white prison with the rest, Who, when bestowed within that refuge warm, Thought they were in their nest and safe from harm. “Are there more, Vincen?”--“Ay!” he answered her. “Then, Holy Virgin! you’re a sorcerer!” “Thou simple maid! About St. George’s day, Ten, twelve, and fourteen eggs, these tomtits lay. Ay, often. Now let these the others follow! They are the last: so good-bye, pretty hollow!” But ere the words were spoken, and the maid In her flowered neckerchief had fairly laid Her little charge, she gave a piercing wail: “Oh me! oh me!” then murmured, and turned pale; And, laying both her hands upon her breast, Moaned, “I am dying!” and was sore distressed,